


Fire and Fury

by Brinady



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Possibly Pre-Slash, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinady/pseuds/Brinady
Summary: When Jaskier is taken hostage by a group bent on exacting revenge against a certain witcher, he learns first-hand how Geralt earned the title 'Butcher of Blaviken.'Geralt, for his part, has to deal with having indirectly brought the harm to the bard, and having revealed the horrors of which he his capable.They're both a bit of a mess, but, of course, they work things out as only they can.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 127
Kudos: 579





	1. Wrong place, wrong time

**Author's Note:**

> So I know that probably nearly every possible iteration of the torture-and-rescue premise has been written at some point, but I sort of couldn't stop myself from doing my own version of it. 
> 
> Oh, and I added a bit more caution to the ratings because, well, human vs. human violence always strikes me as more actually disturbing that human vs. monster or human vs. nature. But really, if the reader has watched the show this is nothing extraordinary. 
> 
> Anyway-- enjoy!

It had been a handful of months since Jaskier had last seen Geralt.

They had parted ways after _yet another_ “we’re not friends” incident. For a mutant reputed to have “no capacity for human emotion” the witcher could be downright pissy sometimes. Admittedly, it mostly happened when Jaskier was around. 

_I bring out the best in him_. The bard decided to himself. 

Jaskier had spent a couple of those months in court at Tretogor providing entertainment for several banquets and courtly events, while providing _himself_ with entertainment in the form of a lovely countess. 

But things had ended, as they often did, with an angry uncle and some none too subtle threats against his life and manhood, so he had departed and spent the next couple months as an itinerant minstrel, plying his trade and keeping an ear to the ground, as he always did, for news of Geralt. 

It hadn’t been long before he’d heard rumors of a white-haired witcher killing some drowners down in Drakenborg, and after that of a Leshen being vanquished up near Vartburg. It seemed good old Geralt was moving north from Vartburg towards Tridam, so Jaskier adjusted his travel plans accordingly and now found himself in a small town that very well might be the witcher’s next stop. 

_“Did the selkimore descend,_

_The witcher there to end,_

_And naught to do,_

_But become it’s stew,_

_And kill the beast from within!”_

Jaskier finished the song with gusto and glee, but the usual laughter that accompanied its amusing end was somewhat muted tonight. Probably they didn’t know selkimores...hmm. _Too far inland for that song…_ he considered... _best save it for lake towns…_

“So you know this white-haired witcher now do ya?” A man sitting at a nearby table with a large company of friends turned and asked, “You actually _see_ him kill that selki-thing?” 

“Well not _as such_.” Jaskier strode over to the man with an amiable smile. “That particular battle I took from a very reliable eye-witness account.”

The man looked unimpressed and turned back to his friends.

“But as for ‘knowing’ the witcher--” Jaskier rejoined, “Ha! Let me tell you! I more than _know_ him. We are practically best friends. I am his long-time and deeply loyal travel companion. I have personally witnessed him fight more than a dozen assorted varieties of monster, including, but not limited to, a fully grown _dragon_ , and it was I who brought him to the fated weddings of Calanthe and Pavetta in Cintra. ‘ _Do I know him?’_ I do believe it’s fair to say I _know_ him better than anyone ever _has_ known him.” He grinned triumphantly and was pleased to see the questioner and all of his friends turn back to look at him with keen interest.

“Hey Torol,” the man called to a taller man in uniform sitting at the bar. “This here bard says he knows the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Well, now, actually, that is a point of some contention,” Jaskier hedged, “You see, the term ‘butcher’ is clearly a derogatory one in this case, and strikes fear into the hearts of ordinary folk. For someone whose job involves helping ordinary folk solve their monster problems, you can see how such a moniker could be rather unhelpful. So I’ve taken it upon myself, as his friend and advocate, to help him free of it. If you wouldn’t mind terribly calling him “the White Wolf” we’d both be deeply appreciative. As it happens I…”

Jaskier stopped as his shoulder brushed up against something. He turned to look and found the rather intimidating ‘Torol’ looming over him.

“So you do know the _Butcher_.” He said, emphasizing the last word to make it clear he was not inclined to honor Jaskier’s request. “We’ve heard he’s headed in this direction. Care to shed any light on that? Being his _friend_ and all.”

Jaskier gave a nervous laugh, starting to become markedly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken.

“Aaacctually.” He said slowly and then laughed in a way that did not successfully dispel the tension in the room. “It _may_ behoove me to admit that I am rather prone to exaggerate my connection to the…uh...’Butcher.’ It’s a foible common to creative types, I’m afraid. I’ve crossed paths with this witcher a time or two, but in actual fact, I barely know him. He’s more of an acquaintance, really.”

An unyielding hand gripped his bicep.

He gulped.

“You may have heard he travels with a bard sometimes, yes? I know the man, as it happens. Bit of a professional rivalry after all-- _aaaah_ ,” his arm was twisted behind his back and his lute roughly wrested out of his grip. 

“He’s a short fellow, actually, rather fat, goes by the name ‘Buttercup’ of all things. Something of a pushover, really-- ooof,” his knees were kicked out from under him and he fell forward, almost hitting the floor but for the next hand grasping him by the collar.

“...truth be told, I stole most of these songs from him and improved on them. It’s embarrassing to admit, but there you have it. So you see, you’ve got the wrong bard! If you’d be so kind as to--”

A gloved fist slammed into his temple.


	2. Three clues

When Geralt walked into the tavern all conversation sputtered and died like the last few embers of a doused fire. 

In retrospect, that should perhaps have been his first clue that something was amiss. 

Unfortunately, it was not an entirely uncommon reaction to his arrival, and he was not accustomed to leaving a bar over a few hostile stares, so he simply walked on in, grabbed a bar stool, and sat down.

The second clue was a lingering smell of blood. 

That got his attention. 

It wasn’t the _fact_ of the blood that was alarming. Blood was actually quite often a component of the horrific smellscape of a common tavern. No, it was the fact that it’s scent bore a lingering...familiarity. 

Geralt shook his head and turned toward the innkeeper...before stopping cold. 

The third clue was unmistakable--

\--Filavandrel’s lute lay on a shelf behind the counter. 

Geralt rounded on the innkeeper, pointing to the orphaned instrument.

“ _Where. Is. The bard_?” He said in a low, icy tone that conveyed a threat that was no less terrifying for its lack of specificity. 

“Ah...um…” the innkeeper, an exceptionally ordinary looking man of middling years, eyed the hilts Geralt’s swords with obvious discomfort, “I don’t know...what you mean…”

Geralt leaned in and put his hands on the bar. He knew that to human eyes he moved with a predatorial grace, and here he used that to his advantage.

“Make me ask again,” he said with false calm, “And you’ll be answering through a broken jaw.”

The man gulped audibly. “Alright, alright. He was taken- by Sir Erred’s men.”

Geralt cursed. He grabbed the man by the collar and pulled him forward over the bar in a movement that was probably too fast for the hapless innkeeper to follow. “When?” he growled, “And where.”

“It- it can’t have been more than a couple hours ago!” He sputtered. “I don’t know where they took him. Maybe to Erred’s keep, or perhaps the old chapel? They talked of both but they didn’t tell me…”

“Hm.” He set the man back down and his nose wrinkled involuntarily as he smelled piss. 

He headed for the exit and the locals in that direction shrank out of his way like a retreating wave, but he paused half way out the door and looked back at the innkeeper. “Why did they take him?” He asked.

As the question left his lips a distant scream echoed through the streets of the town.

The innkeeper cringed. “...to get to you, witcher.”

_F---_


	3. A Baited Trap

Jaskier awoke in a hall of some kind. Or was it a keep? A chapel? A long, open structure of wood and stone, in any case. It seemed like it had once been richly appointed but had long fallen into disrepair. 

He realized, with rising dread, that he was at the opposite end of the building from its rather distant entrance and between himself and said entrance were several dozen men, all of whom appeared well-armed and...disreputable. A few looked vaguely familiar, no doubt from the tavern, including that Torol character. _Not good...._

Jaskier turned slowly, ignoring the pounding headache and the crunch of dried blood on his face, to try and ascertain whether there was an alternate point of egress behind him.

It was then he discovered that his hands were securely bound together and tied to some manner of bracket fixed to the floor. _Even worse…_

“You’re awake.” said a low voice from behind him that sounded effortlessly intimidating. “The Butcher’s bard.”

He turned the other way to find a stocky man in ill-fitting finery standing over him and smiling grimly. In one hand he twirled a five-tailed whip in a lazy circle. 

“Look,” Jaskier began, always prepared to fight with words when flight was out of the question, “I’m terribly sorry, but I really don’t know this ‘Butcher’ of whom you and yours speak. I am, in point of fact, _my own_ bard. What do you say we chalk this up to a terrible misunderstanding and I’ll be on my way?”

The whip descended across his back in a blow that could only be deemed ‘experimental.’ It stung something fierce and elicited an undignified yelp, but didn’t cut deep into his flesh. 

“Ok, ok, you’ve got me, I _am_ a passing acquaintance of that particular witcher, but, really, I haven’t seen him in months! He could be down in Nilfgard right now for all I know. We’ve no plans to meet up and I have no way to contact him so I don’t see how you could possibly think that--- _aaaah!_ ”

The lash had struck out again, this time with slightly more force. It tore Jaskier’s shirt and stung his flesh. It took the bard several gasping breaths before he could speak again, blinking tears out of his eyes. 

“Please,” he gasped, “can you at least _tell_ me what exactly your endgame is here? Perhaps we can come to some manner of accord?”

“Hmm.” His assailant gave a growl that sounded like Geralt’s but with so much more venom. He stepped in front of Jaskier and crouched down, looking the bard full in the face.

“My endgame? My endgame is vengeance. Mine and all of theirs.” He gestured to the men arrayed throughout the hall. “We’re sons of Blaviken.” He took Jaskier’s chin in one scarred hand. “We’ll have the Butcher’s head.” He struck the bard across the face in a lightning-fast blow that left Jaskier seeing stars and bleeding from the mouth. 

“That’s well and good,” Jaskier finally spat, “But where do I come into it? You know it’s a _witcher_ you’re after, don’t you? They rather famously _don’t_ have, loyalties or friends or _feelings_ or--”

The lash descended again, this time with full force. Jaskier could not even begin to hold back the scream that tore from his throat as the whip sliced deep into the flesh of his back. 

If he had the mental capacity left for anything other than pain he would have been surprised to hear the ‘son of Blaviken’ answering him.

“Torol had it from an elf out by Rinde-- the Butcher tore across half of Redania looking for a healer for his pet bard. Truth is, it doesn’t matter if you’re really him. We were just going to string up a tavern whore to lure him here before you came along.” He patted Jaskier on the head and the bard couldn’t help but flinch. “Lucky for us and lucky for her-- not so lucky for you.”

The whip came again, without warning. Jaskier’s scream was choked, but no less visceral. It echoed in the long hall and a distant part of the bard’s mind realized that this was probably by design. 

“Look,” Jaskier gasped, “I can appreciate a good plan when I see it, but this one has some _serious_ flaws. You really think witchers have some kind of _magical_ ability to hear screaming bards from leagues away?”

The lash came down again. At this point each blow was intersecting the aftermath of another, compounding the pain. Jaskier knew he couldn’t hold onto consciousness for much longer. 

“Even if he _could_ hear me from three towns away,” Jaskier’s voice broke as he continued, “He wouldn’t be so foolish to come in here and face THIRTY ARMED ME--” his attempted warning was cut off by the whip and he was unable to stop himself crying out again.

“That’s right, _sing_ , damn you!” There was a slightly crazed note in his captor’s voice and it was growing stronger. “Sing until he…” 

...the voice petered out, “ _Witcher.”_

Jaskier looked up through blood and tears.

There, in the opposite doorway, a white haired, black clad form stood in the flickering torchlight.

Geralt of Rivia had arrived.


	4. Blood and Flame

Geralt’s head came up slowly, as his hand reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his steel sword. 

Jaskier couldn't see very well with blood and tears clouding his vision, but everything in the witcher’s stance told him that Geralt was _f---ing furious_. 

“ _Let_. _Him_. _Go_.” The words echoed in the hall.

Jaskier’s captor threw back his head and laughed-- then brought the lash down hard across the bard’s shoulders. “Never!”

Some part of Jaskier had intended to try and hold back the scream, for Geralt’s sake at least, but the blow was sudden and _so hard_ that it tore chunks of flesh from his back. He screamed til he was hoarse and the world before him flickered in and out of blackness. 

When he found the strength to bring his head up, and his eyes refocused--it was on an entirely different scene. Everything was fire and blood and flashing steel.

He blinked the tears away, trying to understand what he was seeing. 

The first dozen or so men had descended upon Geralt with murderous zeal, and the witcher… he was _slaughtering them._

Jaskier had rarely seen his longtime companion fight humans. It was, he knew, something the witcher tried to avoid, particularly since Blaviken. It was Blaviken that had inspired these ill-fated thugs. It was Blaviken that had earned Geralt the unfortunate title of ‘Butcher.’ 

For some reason Jaskier had always taken that moniker for an exaggeration. Geralt's expertise was in killing monsters after all. Jaskier didn’t doubt the man’s ability to fight and kill men, should they give him no other choice, but somehow he had never really visualized him doing it. He realized his imagination would have fallen far short of the reality. 

Geralt moved like a scythe through stalks of wheat, both swords flashing simultaneously, blocking blows from all directions and retaliating with steel and silver and deadly signs. 

A man took a low sweep at Geralt's leg. He stopped the swing with the flat of his steel blade and used the sign of ‘aard’ to sweep the steel back through its owner’s leg, removing it at the knee. Geralt thrust the silver sword through his sternum even as he swept the steel back to intercept two more blades. 

He left the silver sword in it’s gurgling holster and tore down a nearby wall-hanging. ‘Igni’ shot flames up it’s length and Geralt flung it across the faces of the two closest attackers. While they batted at their blazing shroud he beheaded each of them in turn with vicious precision. As their swords fell, he grabbed one of them by the blade and whirled, throwing it end over end to lodge in the chest of a man poised to leap on him from the side. 

He withdrew his silver blade again and faced the next attackers.

Jaskier only realized that he’d been watching in rapt horror when his view was momentarily obstructed by the whip-wielding ‘son of Blaviken’. Only now it was a knife in his hand and he wrapped his arms around the bard, pressing the blade to his throat. 

Jaskier let out a strangled cry of pain as his shredded back was pressed up against his captor’s chest, but what he saw unfolding across the hall transformed it into a cry of horror.

Hearing the bard’s scream, Geralt had turned away from his latest opponent at an inopportune moment. It was only a split-second’s distraction, and Geralt met the man’s next blow with his steel sword, but what the witcher didn’t see was another soldier leaping in from the left with a powerful overhand swing.

“Geralt!” Jaskier tried to shout, but the warning came far too late and the steel bit deeply into the witcher’s back below his right shoulder.

Geralt’s cry was more of a roar, and he retaliated immediately, whirling around with a vicious blast of ‘aard’ that threw the hapless man across the room, impaling him on a sconce. He continued the rotation, wheeling back to the previous assailant and dispatching him as he staggered back.

Flames from Geralt’s frequent use of ‘igni’ had caught some of the old paper-thin tapestries and then spread to the desiccated timbers. He used them to his advantage as the next group came at him, forcing men too close to the blaze and then striking when they were distracted.

If he felt the blood running freely down his back, he gave no sign.

As Geralt engaged the next group of swordsmen, now more cautious than their fallen fellows had been, a pair wielding crossbows stepped out of the shadows behind the witcher. Jaskier was about to cry a warning when his tormentor tightened his grip and pressed the knife in closer. “ _Not a word._ ” The harsh whisper was eerily gleeful. Jaskier could only let out a whimper.

But as the crossbowmen took aim, Geralt threw a hand up behind him, not even bothering to look, and sent a blast of ‘aard’ into the already burning rafters above the men. The ‘crack’ from above them broke their concentration, and they had less than a second to throw up their arms as sparks and burning timbers rained down on them. 

They backpedaled fast, swatting at the flames that were catching on their clothing, and then turned to find themselves face-to-face with the witcher, who shoved a sword through each of their chests.

Geralt spun around to defend against the rest of the group pursuing him. He blocked an overhand blow with one blade and then fired a borrowed crossbow into the man’s eye with his other hand. He threw the spent weapon at the next man and slashed him across the side when he instinctively tried to deflect it. 

The remaining pair standing between the witcher and his objective were starting to succumb to the smoke, which had also begun to obscure Jaskier’s view of the battle. Despite the coughing that staggered them, they charged together towards Geralt and disappeared with him into a billow of smoke. 

In less than a second one of the men was hurled back out of the smoke directly into a burning tapestry, and the other immediately became the source of several tortured screams and did not re-emerge. 

Geralt strode out of the smoke and flame like a grizzly shade emerging from a hellish nightmare. 

As he advanced on them, Jaskier could finally see that, indeed, the witcher’s eyes were midnight, his face painted with the blood of his foes. 

The terrifying effect was not lost on the remaining ‘son of Blaviken.’ He pulled the bard up closer, shielding himself, flashing the knife so the witcher could not fail to see. “Stay back!” He shrieked. The crazed note in his voice had transformed to terror, “I’ll kill him!”

Geralt did not even break stride.

He ran his hand over the silver blade, ‘igni’ turning it red-hot. Then he shifted his grip and hurled it like a javelin propelled with a focused blast of ‘aard’.

The sword entered the lordling’s face at the cheek and penetrated through to the hilt before propelling it’s victim backwards like a gory puppet tossed by the strings.

Jaskier was pulled backward too, but quickly found the end of his rope and was jerked out of the dead man’s loose grip. He fell on his side, gasping both in pain and at the horror of what he’d just seen. 

As Geralt pushed forward, almost to Jaskier, there was a loud ‘crack’ from above and chunks of flaming rafters, finally too weakened by fire to support themselves, rained down from above.

Geralt snarled and threw a hand forward, sending a wave of ‘aard’ over Jaskier that pushed the shower of flaming brands clear of the bard. He knocked some of the timbers away from himself with his remaining sword, and shouldered through others, grimacing as sparks and splinters found a few chinks in his armor. 

Jaskier watched with wide eyes still in shock, as the smoldering, blood-soaked witcher crossed the remaining distance in a few quick strides and was suddenly looming over him. Inky eyes took in the state of the bard and almost burned with fury. The black-gloved hand, still smoking from ‘igni’, descended toward him…

And Jaskier flinched.

Gods help him, it was only reflex. He winced and shrank back what little he could when the waking nightmare, who also happened to be his dearest friend, descended from the flames as if to cast his soul into damnation.

Geralt froze.

The shock on his face would surely have been less if he’d been doused by a bucket of ice water at that precise moment. 

Jaskier came to his senses immediately and reached out with bound hands, wincing at the pain. “Geralt.” He tried to say, though the word was choked by smoke.

The witcher may as well have been a statue. 

The bard’s blurry eyes widened as he caught movement behind his friend and off to the left. “ _Geralt!_ ” He cried again. But for a second time the warning came too late. The man who had crawled out from the billowing smoke lunged forward and fell on the witcher in a last, desperate attack, his dagger plunging into the witcher’s calf. 

That, at least, got Geralt’s attention. He wheeled around, blade flashing, and removed the man’s hand with the first stroke and impaled him through the neck with the second. He died gurgling.

Geralt plucked the dagger out of his calf and eyed it dispassionately.

Then he turned back to Jaskier, knelt, and used the newly acquired dagger to slice through the ropes binding the bard’s hands. 

“Geralt, I…” Jaskier tried.

“It’s alright.” Geralt said, not looking at the bard. He discarded the knife and reached behind Jaskier to tug on something. “We have to leave. This place is coming down.” 

He was right. The fire had spread through the dry and rotten timbers and the flames engulfing the lower hall were rapidly spreading toward them. 

Geralt gave a particularly strong yank and finally pulled the ornate cloak off of the dead ringleader. He carefully draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders. “Can you walk?” He asked, cautiously extending a hand to the bard. He didn’t look like he was expecting an affirmative. 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier replied honestly. He took the proffered hand and leaned forward, trying to get his feet under him. The pain that had been pulsing with every heartbeat spiked into a crescendo as he tried to move muscles that had been torn to ribbons. “I...no…sorry,” He choked out as he sank back down. He coughed as the smoke started to close in more densely.

Geralt shook his head. “I’ve got you.” He swiftly wrapped the cloak more tightly around the bard and pulled the hood up over Jaskier’s head. He lifted him up by the upper arms, until he could lean the bard’s upper body over his left shoulder, and then stood, keeping him steady with an arm around his legs. 

Jaskier gasped as the movements, careful though they were, jostled his wounds, but the smoke had now enveloped them completely and he choked on the scorched air.

“Steady.” He heard Geralt say in a tight voice as the witcher took a few quick strides. All he could see was Geralt’s blood-slicked boots and smoke that was lit orange and red by the encroaching flame. 

Then Jaskier felt a brief and unsettling sensation, like the crackle in the air preceding a lightning strike, before a deafening crash sounded from behind him. He felt heat lick against them with new vigor and heard the creaking and crashing sounds echoed from above as Geralt tensed and crouched. 

Jaskier realized what was about to happen just in time to brace himself as best he could.

Geralt surged forward, took a running leap, and for what felt like too many seconds they seemed suspended in the air as they sailed through the hole in the wall of the burning building. 

Then the witcher’s feet hit the ground and his injured leg buckled, driving him to his knees with a hiss of pain. Somehow he caught himself on his free hand and didn’t drop his charge. 

Jaskier’s breath had been driven out of his lungs as he’d landed hard on the witcher’s shoulder, so they both took a few moments to cough through the pain while the building finished collapsing behind them. 

Their respite was short-lived. In moments, voices could soon be heard over the crackling and hissing of the flames, and even Jaskier could tell that they were angry. 

“F---,” Geralt growled, and lurched to his feet with a small groan. It took him several faltering steps to convince the injured leg to cooperate, but he soon eased into a slow run and bore them swiftly away through dark and empty streets and finally into a quiet alley where Jaskier thought he heard Roach greet them with a gentle nicker. 

Sure enough, Geralt immediately hefted him up onto the back of the horse’s saddle where he sat hunched, barely able to hold himself up.

“We’re getting out of here.” The witcher’s voice was gravelly as he swiftly checked the tack and stowed his swords. 

Jaskier thought he saw Geralt’s eyes, now golden once again, narrow as they passed over the dark stain undoubtedly spreading across the back of Jaskier’s cloak. “Got to get you to a healer.” His voice was rough--from the smoke, probably.

The witcher climbed awkwardly into the saddle in front of Jaskier and then reached around for the ends of the cloak, which he tied loosely around his waist, an extra precaution against the bard slipping unexpectedly from Roach’s back. 

“Hold on.” Geralt growled as he urged the horse forward.

And Jaskier did.

He wrapped his arms around Geralt's chest and held tight, doing his best to ignore the pounding pain as the steady lurch of the horse’s lope pushed him against the witcher’s blood-soaked back.

He didn’t have breath for words, and he wasn’t sure he would dare even if he had. Geralt’s mood remained dark and desperate.

Slowly Jaskier felt his consciousness grow foggy. Had he really lost so much blood? Surely not. His back was still ablaze with pain, but he was sure he’d not felt the warm trickle of blood since they’d escaped....

_Hold on_. He told himself, using the last of his strength to maintain his grip on the witcher, _He told me...to hold on._


	5. Ride

Geralt rode hard and fast, pushing Roach for every last ounce of strength.

He couldn’t get that terrified face out of his head. 

Not the disbelieving, hateful, insolent terror of the men he’d mown down with his blade. He regretted their deaths, to be sure, but not for their intrinsic value. He regretted having been put into a position where he had no choice but to kill them. 

It was true-- he hated himself for being a slayer of men, but by now that was an old, comfortable self-loathing- like a poorly healed injury that one simply learned to ignore. 

No, it was the terror on that one familiar, suddenly alien face that tore at him.

It had been soul-piercing to hear the bard cry out in agony under the lash, but that was nothing compared to the look of abject terror on the younger man’s face when he had reached down to him. 

The bard’s eyes had been clear. He knew him, knew his purpose, understood the circumstances, but he could not hold back the terror at seeing a monster descend upon him. And Geralt couldn’t blame him.

It was foolishness, Geralt knew-- tried to tell himself. Why should it matter at all? Geralt knew what he was. Now the bard did too. Even one as foolish as Jaskier could recognize danger when confronted with it’s full fury. 

But that was just it. That had always been the thing that set the bard apart. He had always known what Geralt was and somehow managed never to care. Instead of being afraid and mistrustful of a witcher, Jaskier’s first reaction to him had been...curiosity. And despite the many adventures that Geralt had foolishly permitted, the bard had continued to regard him as... a person. An object of study as well, perhaps, but one that he could know and follow and harry with inane prattle.

The prattle had ceased. Geralt noticed.

Not a peep from the bard since they’d mounted up.

Geralt gritted his teeth in frustration.

Roach stumbled. 

It was only slight, and she didn’t fall, but it brought Geralt back to his senses. 

He heard her breathing hard and saw the glistening sweat on her coat.

_“Sh--!”_ He hadn’t been paying attention. _Trying to break both of them in the same night? I’m such a f---ing idiot._

He quickly brought Roach back down to a trot and then, after a moment, to an easy walk. He pulled her off the road as soon as he could smell water nearby. “I’m sorry, girl.” He stroked the damp mane and then dismounted, disentangling himself from the bard’s arms. 

Jaskier slumped forward over the horse’s neck and Geralt caught him before he could fall, pulling him out of the saddle. He was unconscious, quite pale, and a good deal warmer than the cool night warranted.

_F---._

He had to get the bard to a doctor, _now_ , but killing Roach in the attempt would serve no one.

He laid Jaskier down on his side on some soft ground, taking extra care not to touch his wounded back, and covered him with the cloak.

Then he quickly turned and set to work on Roach, who stood with her legs squared, still breathing heavily. Muttering repeated apologies, he stripped off the saddle and blankets and led her over to the small pond for a drink. He took the flat of his knife blade and scraped rolls of lather off her neck, shoulders and barrel, then rubbed her down with his own bedroll, since her saddle blanket was sweat-soaked. The work went slower than he liked-- his right arm refused to cooperate with the strenuous parts.

When Roach was finally drying and breathing easy, Geralt turned his attention back to the bard. 

Jaskier hadn’t moved, but had begun to shiver underneath the thick cloak.

Geralt cursed under his breath.

He knelt and gathered the bard up into his arms. Awkwardly, trying to spare his injuries, he wrapped the cloak around both of them and held Jaskier until his shaking began to subside. 

The bard shifted and murmured something unintelligible.

Geralt pressed his head back against his chest. “Rest.” He ordered as gently as he could manage. 

Jaskier stilled and Geralt let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to take a good look at the bard’s torn back, but the younger man reeked of fresh blood and sour sweat and salt tears and Geralt hated himself afresh for having caused it. 

He grimaced as he shifted the cloak, laid Jaskier back down, and then stood. His injured leg protested, stiff from the long ride. He would have to see to it. Sometime. Later.

He turned back to the horse. “No choice, Roach- we have to keep going.”

She gave him a patient look and kept nibbling leaves. 

He sighed and put the still-damp tack back on. Then turned and hoisted the unconscious bard on top. Awkwardly, like he was posing some sort of life-sized doll, he got Jaskier seated astride the saddle and managed to jam each of his boots into the stirrups. He tucked the cloak tightly around the bard and let him slump squarely forward onto the pommel of the saddle. 

_Good enough._ Geralt decided. 

With one hand on the reins and one on Jaskier’s knee, Geralt led Roach back onto the road. It was an uncomfortable way to walk, almost sidestepping to keep one hand under the horse’s head and the other back with the bard, but thankfully Roach seemed to understand Geralt’s intent and gave him a steady walk without any fuss.

The witcher gritted his teeth as the unnatural posture tugged at the wounds he was determined not to acknowledge, but he kept pace, making for the next town that was still untold hours away.


	6. Witchcraft

Jaskier awoke on his side in what was most definitely a bed. He wasn’t entirely sure why, as his memory seemed to be rather reluctant to join him on this side of consciousness, but he had the distinct impression that this was a great improvement on his recent circumstances. 

He cracked an eyelid to see...the inside of a...hut? That was new-- he was more than half certain of it. 

It was hung about with herbs and skins and bits of twine and smelled both spicy and moldy at the same time. The hut gave the overall impression of a place where either an ominous portent was about to be laid upon him...or he was going to be baked into a pie. 

What in the blazes was he doing here? He didn’t remember being lured into a suspicious cottage in the woods, or being kidnapped by fairies…

_...kidnapped._ The twinge of pain in his temple reminded him. The men in the tavern...the whip...and then glorious and terrible destruction. 

_Geralt!_ Guilt flooded through him, along with deeply unpleasant memories. 

_That face…_ he winced at the recollection-- that terrifying, blood-spattered, hollow-eyed face...falling...horrified... _devastated._

_He saved my life and I might as well have slapped him in the face for it…_

He grimaced and made to sit up…

“Ow ow ow ow ow!” The movement pulled at the wounds on his back, but he’d made it part of the way up so he continued as carefully as he could until he was sitting upright on the straw mattress with his feet on the damp clay floor. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath-- well he tried, but that too flexed some torn and bruised muscles so he cut it short. He took a moment to self-examine. 

He felt...weak…gravely sore in far too many places...but somehow surprisingly whole.

“Hmmm.” He opened his eyes--

\-- to find himself staring into a wizened face just inches from his own.

“Guaaah!” He exclaimed, leaning back sharply by reflex. He cursed as the unexpected movement awoke more pains. “What in the…”

“Eaaaasy now lad!” The raggedy creature before him reached out what appeared to have at one point been a human hand and took him by the shoulder. “Don’t go doing yourself harm. Not after all the trouble I went to putting you back to rights.” This was followed by what could only be described as a cackle. 

“What…? Who…?” Jaskier sputtered. 

“Oooo, now is that any way to talk to old Nan?” It (...she…?) stroked his cheek and he tried not to recoil--her fingers felt like papery claws. 

“Here now, drink some broth. It’ll put some strength back in you.” She thrust a warm but decidedly dirty bowl into his hands. It did _smell_ somewhat like broth. It’s appearance on the other hand….

“Oh, um, thank you, truly, but I...uh…--”

“I insist.” She deadpanned, owlish eyed suddenly drilling into his.

He tried a probably unconvincing smile. “Ha ha ha... um...ok...” 

There was no spoon. He brought the least encrusted edge of the bowl up to his lips and sipped. “Mmmmmm.” The unconvincing smile got bigger and less convincing, “It’s good…” It really wasn’t too bad, if he didn’t look at it...or think about it.

He locked eyes with the crone and took a few more sips until she finally released him from her captivating glare.

“There! You’ll be right as rooster-teeth in no time.” She gave a mostly toothless grin and Jaskier had to work to avoid gagging. 

“Um... begging your pardon...uh…’Nan’,” he asked, “...and not to seem ungrateful of course, but can you tell me-- was there by chance a very large, scary, white-haired fellow here quite recently…?”

“You mean your witcher?” The ancient woman arched a very fluffy eyebrow. “Of course he was here. Who d’ya think brought you all the way to me? It certainly wasn’t your own spindly legs!” She tapped him on the calf with a stick that had heretofore been hidden among her many and assorted garments. 

“Took him all night to get you here, or so he said. Come from down in Sarzyn? Some luck he had-- come all this way looking for a doctor and instead he finds Nan the witch!” She thumbed toward herself and grinned and Jaskier could not for the life of him guess whether or not she was being sarcastic.

“A right terrifying fellow that witcher, though ain’t he? Burstin' in here, flayed boy over his shoulder, drenched in the blood of his enemies, making demands like he can just order old Nan about.”

Jaskier shook his head in sympathetic consternation.

“And the fool man wouldn’t leave me to my work! He near to wore a trough in my floor with all that pacing. I never have seen a witcher so _distraught_.” She rasped. “But then again, I can’t recall ever seeing a witcher with a human for a _friend_ neither.”

Jaskier barked a laugh. “Did _he_ tell you that?” He asked, “No-- no need to answer because I _know_ he didn’t tell you that because he has repeatedly told me, _and others_ , that _we are not friends.”_

The witch raised an eyebrow and huffed, “You think because he says it that makes it true, my boy, hmm? It seems the wisdom I thought I glimpsed in you was just a polished horse-apple after all. How many times would I have to tell you that I'm a buxom bar-maid for it to be true? Eh?” She leaned in toward him until he could smell her none-too-pleasant breath. “If I glamoured myself to look like one would that make it true?” She laughed as his nose wrinkled, “A witcher doesn’t drag an unconscious man halfway across the kingdom and promise a witch _any price_ for his healing if he’s _not a friend_ , foolish boy.”

_Any price? Geralt…_

“Alright, alright.” He leaned back, frowning uncomfortably, “I see your point.”

“In any case, he asked me to give you his apologies.”

“His apologies?” That didn’t sound at all like Geralt.

“‘Tell him I’m sorry…’” the witch quoted in a low growl, doing a passable impression of the witcher, “‘...for the pain and trouble.’” 

Alright, that _did_ sound like Geralt.

_F---._

“And he’s gone?” Jaskier asked.

“At least an hour ago.” She nodded.

“ _Sh--._ He could be anywhere by now.” He grimaced and rubbed his temples in frustration. 

“He _could_ be. But he’s not.”

“What do you mean ‘he’s not’?”

“He’s not ‘ _anywhere’_ ; he’s somewhere. He’s made camp west of here by the river. It _is_ nearly evening, after all.”

“How could you possibly…”

“I _am_ a witch, dearie, please keep up.”

“Huh. Well I’d better go after him, then.” Jaskier concluded, shifting forward gingerly in order to stand. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he could move well enough without extraordinary pain, so long as he was careful about it.

The witch didn’t stop him as he maneuvered through the obstacle course of hanging objects to reach the door of the small cabin. Or what passed for a door-- it was actually an animal skin of unknown provenance. He pushed past it into the cool twilight of an unfamiliar forest and looked around.

“Follow that path.” The witch said from somewhere around his elbow.

He half jumped. She had moved perfectly noiselessly.

She was pointing one bony limb down a faint track through the trees in the direction of the setting sun. It was only a ‘path’ by the loosest definition. 

“When you reach the river, don’t cross. Follow the river bank south and you’ll find his fire.”

Something soft hit him in the gut. The witch had produced a cloth sack and thrust it at him. “Some bandages for you and your friend.” She said by way of explanation. 

Jaskier frowned. “Is he…?” He didn’t really need an answer, he remembered all too clearly seeing Geralt take a sword to the back and a knife to the leg.

“Aye, he took some hurts in that battle of his. Nothing that would stop a witcher of course. Fool man wouldn’t let me tend to him while you were in need. You’ll have better luck, though.”

_Not likely_. Jaskier knew how stubborn the witcher could be.

“Thank you, Nan,” Jaskier turned to the diminutive woman. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“Ah, no need, lad. I owed that witcher a favor in any case.” She hesitated, “...or I _will_ owe him a favor in the future...” She seemed to think about this for a long while. “No matter,” she concluded, “a debt’s a debt.”

Jaskier looked at her askance.

“Well, best be on your way! Don’t want to lose the light, now do you?” She gave him a firm smack on the rump that sent him stumbling forward in surprise. 

“Right!” Jaskier agreed, unbalanced.

He turned to offer a half-hearted wave farewell…

...but the witch had vanished.


	7. More Complicated

“Jaskier _..._ what?” Geralt blinked in surprise as the bard stepped into the circle of firelight, “What the f--- are you doing here?” It took the witcher only a split second to assess the bard before getting to his feet and striding urgently to his side. 

“Geralt! Thank the _gods!_ You are a hard man to find!” Jaskier noticed with no small measure of guilt that Geralt was limping. The witcher was _still_ wearing the scorched clothes and bloodstained armor from the previous night, although he had at least begun unpacking some saddlebags. 

“Not hard enough… Here, sit before you fall.” The witcher growled, reaching toward him...and then hesitated. 

The bard saw Geralt scan his face with a sidelong, almost suspicious glare.

_Right..._ he thought guiltily _…still thinks I’m afraid of him, then. I’m going to have to rectify that…_

Apparently Geralt found no trace of the suspected fear in his countenance, because he proceeded to take him gently by the elbow and guide him to his own seat on the log by the fire. 

“I don’t need to…” Jaskier tried to object.

“You do.” Geralt interrupted, sitting on the opposite side of the log, the saddlebags between them.

Jaskier had to admit, if only to himself, that the witcher was right. He was feeling shaky and a little bit faint. Overexerting himself after making only a partial recovery had perhaps _not_ been the best decision. He sat with his elbows on his knees, leaned forward to put his head in his hands, and took a few moments to breathe and calm his spinning head. 

When he looked up he caught Geralt giving him a worried glance. The witcher looked away quickly and tossed another stick on the fire. “You shouldn’t be here.” He said in a low voice-- less sarcasm, more conviction. 

“Oh really?!” Jaskier asked, more annoyed than he realized, “And where, pray tell, do you think I _should_ be at this precise moment, Geralt? _Hmmm?_ Perhaps back in that abominable little town enjoying the tender mercies of the ‘sons of Blaviken’? Or under the care of that bizarre witch of yours? Honestly Geralt, how is it that every _one_ of your friends turns out to be _terrifying?”_

“She’s not my…”

“--not your _friend_. Of _course,_ how silly of me to use the “f” word in reference to you. Far be it from me to presume that the great and mighty ‘ _Geralt of Rivia_ ’ would _deign_ to call a mere mortal ‘ _friend’_.” 

“Jaskier…” Geralt growled, but the bard wasn’t finished.

“You walk among us for, what? -- _centuries_ , and a few of us have the audacity to _get to know you_ just a little bit, and maybe share a grand adventure now and then, but the moment anyone _dares_ to call you a _friend_ \--”

“ _Damnit Jaskier!”_ Geralt snarled loudly. He snapped the large stick of firewood he’d been holding with a loud ' _crack'_ and hurled one half into the woods angrily.

And Jaskier couldn’t help but flinch.

Geralt’s eyes widened for a moment, before narrowing as he leveled a finger at the bard. “That face.” The witcher said, his voice once again low and resigned. “You know it now, don’t you? You’ll never feel safe with me again.” He looked away.

“Geralt, you are talking utter _nonsense_. Clearly you’ve lost too much blood and not taken any potions because usually your words have at least _some_ basis in reality. Do I need to spell it out for you? I was in an extraordinarily _unsafe_ , and, might I add-- _quite painful_ , situation _without_ you. In fact it was only thanks to you and your brave and reckless _rescue_ that I am now, in point of fact, _quite safe_. You see how you’ve got it _entirely_ backwards?”

Geralt shook his head slowly, his gaze distant. “Just words.” He said. “You saw what I’m capable of. You fear it. Rightly so.”

“What I _saw_ was my _friend_ risking life and limb against an entire _building-full_ of men whose express purpose in life was to kill him-- and all that solely for the purpose of rescuing me!”

“You saw a _monster._ Whether or not you choose to believe it, your instincts betray you.”

_‘You’ll just end up bloody...and hating yourself…’_ Jaskier suddenly recalled Geralt's words to Filavandrel. He’d figured, at the time, that there was some voice-of-experience at play... _a whole boatload,_ he now realized. How could he hope to argue against such deep-seeded self-loathing?

“It’s not...I mean--” Jaskier sighed. “Arg, how do I explain this? I’ve always _known_ you’re dangerous, Geralt. It’s part of your allure-- the stink of adventure that may or may not be onions, remember?”

Geralt gave him a sideways glare but said nothing. 

“And it’s true- I’d be a fool not to be alarmed at witnessing your...deadliness...in all its glory. But that doesn’t mean I _fear_ you, Geralt. It doesn’t mean I see you as a monster.”

The witcher’s face remained blank, unconvinced.

“Think of it this way-- Roach is a dangerous animal, insomuch as all horses are dangerous, would you agree?”

Geralt shrugged slightly.

“A well placed kick from her could kill either of us, you have to admit.”

Geralt nodded fractionally.

“And if you were brushing her down and, say, a hornet stung her on the flank and she kicked out and almost hit you… it’s fair to say you’d be pretty damned alarmed, yes?”

A non-committal grimace.

“But you wouldn’t hate her or fear her or think less of her, because she’s Roach and you _know_ her and _trust_ her and she’s nearly your very best friend in the whole wide world, aside from me. You see what I mean?”

Geralt shook his head. “It’s different.”

“How?!”

“She’s not made for killing. She’s not a predator.”

“Neither are you, Geralt! Listen to me!” Jaskier scooted along the log so he was close enough to put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “You may have been made for killing monsters, but not as a predator. A predator kills to fulfill its own needs. A horse kills in defense-- of itself and it’s family: it’s herd. Tell me this-- have you ever killed a man for your own gain?”

Geralt looked down, but shook his head slightly.

“And do you kill monsters that are harmless to people?” 

“No.”

“Then you are no more a predator than Roach-- clearly! I mean, I know I dubbed you the ‘White Wolf,’ but I didn’t know you’d take it so damned literally!”

Geralt growled something unintelligible.

“So you see-- I couldn’t possibly fear you, Geralt. I _know_ you. I know you’re no more a danger to me than Roach is to you. And seeing you kill some vile men in your own defense and mine is _certainly_ never going to change that.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier from the corner of his eye, seeming to assess the bard’s sincerity. 

Then he averted his gaze with a “Hmm” that almost held a note of acceptance. 

_Well that may be the best that I get._ Jaskier thought.

He was about to squeeze Geralt’s shoulder but paused, feeling the torn leather under his hand. _Right, he took quite the blow from that sword._ He moved his hand down to examine the injury. 

“For my part, I’m sorry.” Jaskier continued, as he carefully lifted up the rim of the torn pauldron to unbuckle it. Geralt voiced no surprise or objection to the bard’s assistance. Jaskier had helped with the witcher’s armor enough times in their travels together that both of them moved by rote- muscle memory guiding their movements. 

“It was reflex after all, and I’m not exactly known for my reservation and restraint in the best of times, let alone when I’ve just undergone _actual torture_.” He carefully tugged the pauldron free, wincing slightly as the movement of his arms pulled at the wounds on his own back. 

“ _Jaskier…_ ” Geralt turned back toward him, a pained look on his face that had nothing to do with his shoulder, clearly about to make yet another guilt-ridden argument.

“No! _No._ ” Jaskier interrupted with uncharacteristic severity, pointing a finger square between the witcher’s golden eyes. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, so just _don’t._ ”

“I--” 

“ _Don’t_! You’re going to tell me for the umpteenth time how associating with you puts me at risk and how witchers don’t have friends and how it’s safer for the both of us if I leave you the f--- alone.” He pushed one shoulder away and then pulled the other toward him in order to remove the next pauldron in turn.

“Apparently I have to remind you that I’m more than capable of getting into trouble on my own, and that, in fact, you’ve pulled me out of far more messes of my own making than of yours over the years!” He undid the buckles on the vambraces and Geralt removed them along with the gloves.

“The fact is, the risks are mine to take, and I _will_ take risks, with or without you. So I’ve had it with you taking personal responsibility for my every stubbed toe. It wasn’t your fault that I decided to mouth off to the wrong mob of merry murderers, and leaving me behind out of some misplaced sense of guilt isn’t going to solve anything.” He handled the ties on the back of Geralt’s vest roughly, attempting to cover up how his hands were shaking from the effort.

The witcher wasn’t fooled. He turned, frowning, and carefully took Jaskier’s hands, placing them on the bard’s knees. “I understand.” He said in a resigned tone. “Doesn’t mean I agree.” He shook his head, “For now, how about you don’t hurt yourself further on my account.”

“I’m not--”

Geralt cut him off with a knowing scowl.

“Alright! I _am_ hurting a bit, if you _must_ know. I’ll take it easy--so long as _you’re_ reasonably looked after yourself.” He swung his small burden over towards Geralt. “Nan sent some bandages.”

“Hm.” Geralt grunted a concession. He finished shrugging out of his vest and shirt, revealing the long, bloody tear across his shoulder blade and back. 

“Geralt that looks _deep_.” Jaskier leaned in slightly to look. “What in Melitele’s name were you thinking, not letting the witch treat you?”

Geralt was unperturbed. He poured some water on a swatch of bandage and reached up and over his shoulder to scrub awkwardly at the wound. “Unwise.” He answered, “Magic users sometimes take undue interest in witchers.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Jaskier gave him a sly grin. “Should I tell Yennefer you consider her interest to be ‘undue’?”

Geralt didn’t dignify the barb with a rebuttal, but sent Jaskier a scowl that turned into a wince when his efforts to clean the wound pulled it open further.

“Oi! You’ll start bleeding again if you keep that up!” Jaskier protested, “Let me work on it.” 

Geralt shook his head. “You’ll hurt your back.”

“Not if you sit down here.” The bard pointed to the patch of earth directly in front of him. 

Geralt grimaced, but then seemed to reconsider. “Fine.” He growled. He shifted over and sat with his back to Jaskier, his injured leg propped out in front of him. He passed the damp cloth up to the bard. 

Jaskier cleaned in and around the lengthy wound as gently and carefully as he could, and Geralt endured it with an eerie lack of reaction. 

The bard frowned, “This could really do with some needle and thread. I don’t suppose you have any?”

Geralt shook his head.

“What about one of your potions?” 

“Hm.” Geralt seemed to consider, and then nodded and reached into his saddle bag. He withdrew one of the small vials and held it out to Jaskier. “Four drops into the wound.” He instructed.

The bard went to take it, but Geralt pulled it back. “Don’t get any on your skin.” He said with unexpected intensity.

“I won’t.” Jaskier replied, working to keep any of the natural flippancy out of his voice.

Satisfied, Geralt handed him the vial.

The witcher leaned forward a bit, and Jaskier steadied his arm against the broad back as he carefully administered the droplets. They sizzled and hissed in the open wound and Geralt, though he made no sound, gripped the fabric of his trousers tight with both hands as tension rippled through his body. 

Jaskier carefully capped the vial and then put what he hoped was a comforting hand on the witcher’s good shoulder until the burning appeared to stop. Then he shook his head and handed the vial back to Geralt, marveling at the fact that even _healing_ for a witcher was dangerous and painful. 

They spent the next several minutes working out how to keep bandages in place over such a centrally located wound, but eventually managed to rig something fairly secure, despite Geralt’s steadfast refusal to wear a sling. 

When Geralt retrieved his filthy shirt Jaskier put a hand out to stop him. “You can’t wear that. Surely you have a spare.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearing it.” 

Jaskier blinked. Of course-- the doublet he’d worn the day before had been shredded, and he hadn’t given a thought as to the origin of the loose dark tunic he found himself in now. 

“Right!” he said. “Sorry.” He reached for the blood-stained garment. “Maybe we can wash this one?” 

Geralt moved it out of reach and turned to look toward the river running a few meters away, barely visible in the low light. He exhaled a vague sigh, “Not tonight.”

_He_ is _exhausted._ Jaskier realized. While the witcher might not be as good at hiding his feelings as he’d like to think, he was undeniably skilled at hiding _weakness_. It was an absolute necessity in his line of work, the bard understood, but it was still alarming that Geralt could push himself to the utter brink and give very little sign. 

“Alright.” Jaskier said, and gave the witcher’s arm a reassuring squeeze. 

Geralt pulled the torn shirt back on and Jaskier helped it over the bandaged shoulder.

They tended to the witcher’s leg next, though Geralt insisted on doing the actual work himself, permitting Jaskier to supervise. The wound was deep but had already started to heal, so cleaning it and bandaging it was fairly straightforward.

Then Geralt got up and moved behind Jaskier. The bard cast an inquisitive look over his shoulder. “It’s alright, Geralt. The witch was very thorough, you don’t have to--”

“I know.” Geralt said. “I’m just going to check.” He crouched awkwardly and pulled up the back of the loose shirt.

Though Jaskier hadn’t done much to inspect Nan’s handiwork, he knew the thick bandages encircling his frame didn’t leave his wounds exposed. Still, he felt the feather-light touch of the witcher’s hands, cautiously probing above and below the injuries. It amazed Jaskier that hands capable of bringing about such destruction could also be so gentle.

The witcher was apparently pleased with what he saw because he lowered the shirt with a satisfied “Hm.”

Jaskier was surprised when, instead of moving away, he felt one of Geralt’s hands come to rest atop his shoulder. 

“I _am_ sorry...for all of this.” Geralt said in a low voice. There was sadness there...guilt and regret.

“I know.” Jaskier said solemnly. He placed a hand over Geralt’s. “I don’t blame you for it.” He gave the hand a squeeze and released it.

A moment's silence passed.

“I know.” The witcher finally replied. 

He stepped back and over to the saddle bags where he began stowing the remaining bandages and securing the potions. As was often the case, the witcher let that strange moment of honesty between them pass like it had never happened.

Jaskier smiled to himself. _Typical Geralt._

“You should go back to the witch’s hut to sleep.” The witcher remarked, glancing back, “She’d probably let you have the bed-- better for your back.”

“Eeeeh? No. Definitely not.” Jaskier laughed, “I don’t know if you noticed, but she was a bit... _scary._ Between the lack of teeth, the excess of hair, and the weird tendency to appear and disappear without warning… what?”

Geralt was giving him an odd stare, “What did Nan look like to you?” The witcher asked.

“Ancient, hunched, covered in rags and fluffy white hair --no offense--, sometimes brandishing a stick…” he looked Geralt’s face up and down. “...I take it one of us didn’t see the real Nan?” He guessed.

Geralt grunted what was almost a laugh. “Or neither of us did.”

“Huh!” Jaskier mused, “Witches! It’s always something with them.”

“F---ing witches.” Geralt agreed with a half smile.

“Don’t get me wrong, though.” Jaskier continued, “This one was worlds less crazy than the last witch you brought me too for healing.” He put on an impish grin as Geralt scowled. “But, no, I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you. Don’t fancy a walk back in the dark, in any case.”

“Hm,” was Geralt's neutral response, but he unrolled a blanket by the fire and nodded to the bard. 

“Thanks.” Jaskier slowly stretched out on his side, careful to keep the winces and groans to a minimum for Geralt’s sake. 

He was mid-yawn when he felt something warm being draped over him-- the witcher’s cloak.

He looked up at Geralt, “You don’t have to…”

“I don’t need it.”

Jaskier almost voiced a retort, but the cloak had cut the night chill instantly. It was warm and soft and smelled of the witcher. His objection died on his lips. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt grunted and lay out flat on his blanket on the opposite side of the fire, arms behind his head, despite how the movement definitely stretched his injured shoulder, face to the night sky. 

Jaskier regarded him for a moment. _That witch called us friends._ He thought, with a mental sigh, _She’s right too. But it’s more complicated than that… it’s_ _always more complicated than that._

He hummed a few bars of the first song that came to mind, and was surprised when the witcher’s eyes shot open.

Geralt looked over at Jaskier. “Your lute.” He said with a measure of actual concern.

_Sh--._

“Back in Sarzyn, I’m afraid.” Jaskier said with a resigned sigh. That hadn’t been the only thing he’d left back at the inn in that accursed town, but it was by far the most valuable. “I don’t even know the way back from here, Geralt, you’ll have to point me in the right direction.”

“Hm.” Geralt frowned, then his features softened, as if he’d come to a decision, and he closed his eyes, “We’ll go back for it tomorrow.”

_‘We.’ He definitely said ‘we.’_

“Really? What about the--”

“Really.” Geralt said. He turned his head toward Jaskier and opened his eyes slowly. Dancing flames from the campfire were reflected in the golden pupils, and the bard's mind was drawn, unbidden, back to that burning, bloody building. 

But he didn’t flinch. 

He held the witcher’s gaze and smiled, filling the expression with all the warmth and love and gratitude his friend deserved.

Geralt closed his eyes again, an unfamiliar look of contentment settling on his features. 

“Thanks.” Jaskier tried, with limited success, to keep the delight out of his voice. “‘Night, Geralt.”

“Goodnight.”


End file.
